


hips winding in those wet seal shorts

by rhys (TeaPlease)



Series: all hallow's hoes (neibolt october kinkfics 2020) [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Clubbing, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Human/Monster Romance, Humor, M/M, Minor Violence, Monsters, POV Richie Tozier, Size Kink, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, minor gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaPlease/pseuds/rhys
Summary: It wasn’t the tacky skintight outfit that kept him staring. Sure, it was hot, but everyone in the joint was hot; horny 20-somes and 50-ups in their finest. No, it was the recognition that it sparked. Something firing off in his synapses that had Richie standing and squinting.He remembered voices really well. Faces, they were more fuzzy. But the slim back of the guy dancing barside kept him wondering. The ass, though. The ass confirmed it.or;Richie Tozier is incredibly intrigued by a strange go-go dancer at a gay club. He's looking for a fun and exciting lay, and gets more.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: all hallow's hoes (neibolt october kinkfics 2020) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947688
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	hips winding in those wet seal shorts

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Warning:**  
>  allusions to and used homophobic slurs (by a gay man)  
> references to racism and elitism  
> dubious consent  
> allusions + descriptions of gore  
> size kink 
> 
> This is based off of the V/H/S movie's first segment, "Amateur Night." If you know it, you know it-- if you don't, it will have similar allusions to what's involved in this work. Canon-divergent but Forces might be exerting some effort. Takes place in not-Ohio (imagine New Mexico.)

It wasn’t the tacky skintight outfit that kept him staring. Sure, it was hot, but everyone in the joint was hot; horny 20-somes and 50-ups in their finest. No, it was the recognition that it sparked. Something firing off in his synapses that had Richie standing and squinting.

He remembered voices really well. Faces, they were more fuzzy. But the slim back of the guy dancing barside kept him wondering. The ass, though. The ass confirmed it.

He couldn’t forget an ass like that if he wanted. And usually, Richie would quickly say he’d never want to miss out on the memory of such a pert, tight tush but in this instance, a foreboding wiggle in his brain whispered that this one might be different. 

“Hey, boss.” Someone’s hand trailing up his arm, a crotch bumping into his side uncomfortably and he had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Hey,” the kid got closer and leaned up to his ear. “Hey, you wanna dance, big guy?”

“Yeah, I heard you loud and clear from all the way down there, hotcakes.” Richie usually played nice with the kittens whenever he went to parties but something about that guy, man, did it bother him. With a dismissive pat to the kid’s waist, he clicked his tongue. “Try out the guys in the south wing and if you’re still walking, I’ll give you a show.” But he walked away with just enough manners to offer the smallest wave.

The club’s packed tonight. Real industrial kind of place in the middle of the desert, and though the night time air is entirely chilly, the place is sweltering inside. Richie weaved through disjointed limbs, rubbed against strangers bathed in flashes of white, red, green, and blue. Some eurotrash trance was trembling his glasses and making his teeth shake but he couldn’t fault the DJ, just the club for hosting someone so blase. Expressions and hands were in a staccato across his vision but the beacon was the barfront, with its vaulted pillar. 

It’s pink lights tonights. The guy dances by himself on the right side of the pillar. He’s not wearing heels but thick platforms that are leather bright, bouncing every colour of them in fractals. He’s pretty sure the actual platform part is filled with some snowball glitter pack stuff. It swirls enticingly as the dancer bends at the waist and winds himself down to his knees, thick thighs framed by hands unbecoming of a cute little gogo one-off. They’re rounded out with callouses; you can see the bumps by his knuckles and the way the vein pops as he squeezes his spread legs.

It’s hot but different. Totally unbecoming of a twink. Where’d they find this guy? 

Once he finally escapes the weaving mass of sweaty bodies, Richie signals the bartender as he approaches. “Hi, yeah.” Leaning on his forearms, the man takes a second to adjust his glasses and smiles. “Just a rum and coke. Got any bitters you can put in that?”

The bartender’s hot, some lady with brassy red hair who pokes her hip out. “That’s a Cuba Libre, mister.”

“Yeah, viva la mexico, si se puede, quisiera un cuba libre, por favor.” 

She winks and walks a bit down the counter to start prepping. He’s got his eyes back up at the pretty number dancing in his getup. 

There are more little things like how  _ cheap _ the outfit really is. He’d have gotten them from the dollar-bin club stores, maybe a  _ Rainbow _ sales rack five-finger discount. They’re obscene but not in the right way. Not like the assless chaps and custom distressed denim of the other guys dancing at the pillar, no. 

It’s as stereotypically gay and faggy as one could hope to get. Which Richie  _ didn’t _ get.

Trashy as they come, gay bars build reputations. This specific joint was known for being ruthless. Upper echelon gays only-- if you were fat, you had better be fucking hot and rich; if you’re Asian, Native, anything that wasn’t easily identifiable as ‘white’ the scrunitising stares and immediate assumptions started up. But having bad style? Fuck, that could get people denied at the door verbatim.

Only way Richie survived anything was because he was tall. Tall and dark (the handsome bit was debatable.) The thick frame glasses and corduroys were already offensive, but no one liked a man wearing a real life casual button down. Especially print this loud. But what were they gonna do, turn him away? Of course not. Richie had a way of bypassing the rules that always seemed to miraculously turn out. 

Ice cubes were clinking around and cracking gently as liquid was added to his highball. With an appreciative hum, he took the glass with raised eyebrows and a smile. “Gracias. Nice uh,” he swirled his hovering finger over the top. “Nice touch with this little lime rind, I dig it.” 

The bartender grinned and leaned forward to reply in the loud club. “It’s a part of the job description!” 

“Do you have to be hot to apply, too?” His grin is raucous and she replies with an ‘ooooo,’ leaning back theatrically then coming forward.

Her eyes were bright as they trailed down his body and Richie didn’t know why for the life of him, but it actually made him goddamn blush. She asked if he was incognito and he  _ liked _ this bartender, liked her quick tease, but he got the feeling she didn’t quite return the feelings just yet.

Laughing shortly, the man shook his head before taking another sip of his drink. “Actually trying to get tips before I have a meeting with the big boss. Think this is interview appropriate?” he smiled. 

“If you were 15 applying for a Blockbuster, maybe?” His feigned pain flew away at the laugh he couldn’t contain. 

“I’ll have you know,” Richie muffled over his glass, “that the clerk at Hollister told me that this would be  _ perfect _ for any interview.” Admittedly, alcohol had been working through him for the past three hours. Pre-game and outdoor sulking could get you that. Now things felt like a warm buzz; the stifling heat was more tropical than oppressive and this woman, who he definitely hadn’t met, who felt so perfect- she was getting better and better within two exchanged lines.

She kept him company as he enjoyed the drink, asking about his night so far, wondering why he was parked at the bar. It got him similar to shy as he cropped it up to bad knees, laughing. Briefly looking back to the dancefloor, he added, “Needed a refreshment, too. Your throat gets so dry after telling people ‘no’ 100 times every eight minutes.” 

“Not a fan of the drug-addled and horny-eyed?” She sprays water into a small sink but the cold doesn’t translate in the ricochet spray. Richie still feels exceptionally warm in her presence.

“Hah, nah, I like eagerness with 99.7 percent clarity. I’m not gonna catch a case,” he scoffed. Then, feeling compelled, sighed. “Beside, it’s just not… good that way, if that makes sense. I’d feel. Hah, yeah, just. No.” He stops himself before he gets further and the woman regards him with bright blues. 

Really bright. He wonders if she’s wearing fake contacts or something. 

She rearranges some glasses as she answers, “Yeah, it’s definitely one of those things. I get tense seeing bad news like that.” Her voice falls, flat and quiet. He strains to hear her. She’s continuing, but he can’t-- shit, you know? 

“What was that?” but she’s split off to assist a newcomer that emerged from the crowd. Richie frowned at her smaller body now that she was far from him, but resigned himself. His gaze went back to the pillar and caught the attention of his object of interest.

Or more, caught him looking.

To his credit, the guy played it off cool, eyes lidding then closing as he turned to do what Richie could only describe as some erotic shimmy. As a man in his trade, Richie was all about cultivating attention. Had been since he was a kid. It was hard to stay enigmatic or illusive when you were looked at as a giant. Professional work was integral and the anonymity stayed at the workplace but anyone outside of the monotonous everyday office spiel probably couldn’t help but notice him. 

Something tells him it’s not attraction that had those eyes cast his way.

He tries his luck, though, bides his time, doesn’t move into it. He lets himself drink and chat lazily, Trash Charm dialed up to full, with the bartender who likes to go by Red. It's been a while since he was with a woman- kinda gave up on that front anyways… but there’s a slide to her mouth and a texture of grit that attracts him about this lady. Maybe just as a hot friend.

She’s a great distraction regardless. 

Over the rim, Richie wonders if that’s her goal. She moves like a professional with charm and swagger, an easy and enticing personality. So why was she  _ here,  _ catering to the gay drooling homos at a ritzy club? So close to the sweat and the glitz of the tawny bodies right abovehead?

The guy didn’t look at him directly again but Richie could feel him sneaking looks for the next half. Dropping low and thrusting at nothing, lidded eyes not being able to hide those big browns. Another thing that sunk low in his chest and seemed to tingle his brain. Big brown eyes and thick eyebrows. A pert ass and a defiant face.

All of these culminating factors had him approaching during the cycle through. Another DJ came to play a set and he could see the dancers beginning to switch out after what had to have been hours on their feet at the platform. The guy, he didn’t leave, but stalled at his position then rotated to the front. Richie left a tenner on the counter and slid off his seat to head over his way. 

The front portion was a little daunting without the corner of the bar for warm light and liquid courage. But it also sank lower. With the cast pinks above the podium swirling around in a cosmic shitshow, the man was a euphoric sight. And he was a man, definitely  _ manly _ . Not a kid or a twinkkie twenty-something playing teenybopper. He was slight but the mesh and neoprene couldn’t hide the muscle developed around those arms, the squared off shoulders and slight cut from abdomen straight down. 

“Hey.” The guy didn’t look up straight away but Richie put himself just off from in front of him. Saw the flash of white look ahead then swivel his way.  _ So you’d been expecting me maybe _ ? Richie liked to think he was approachable looking, smiled easy and goofy. It was difficult to reason in a club setting but he practically wore khakis to the bar-- following a social standard wasn’t exactly in the cards he considered a full deck. 

When the man didn’t reply, Richie went forward, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Think I couldn’t see you looking at me through the cloud of glitter dust, huh?” He’s starting off slick, teasing, can’t tell about the colour reaction but sees the man’s eyebrows barrel down as crags form in his face. 

Oh, definitely not a twentysome. 

“Annoying speck?” His voice is sharper than he’d been expecting but quiet, barely carries in the thudding club. It isn’t light by any means, though, betraying the tiny look of him. He’s annoyed but he’s engaging him. Richie can work with that.

He bows graciously. “Thhhheeee one and only. But looks like I flew back. Some boomerang action there for ya.”

“Hn.”

Richie gets closer, even though there’s a thin gate that doesn’t permit a full body entrance. As if that would really stop him but he respects it for now. “Was I a particularly shiny speck?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Shiny afar, dull close up.” Richie laughed and thrilled to see the twitch at this stranger’s lips before it was squashed, shaped into a downright scowl. “Want something? Just harassing?”

“Big assumption.”

“Trying to keep it even between us.”

“Oh, so you noticed the size?” The dancer rolls his eyes again and adjusts his mesh top and the neon turtleneck situation underneath it. Richie notices there are a few tattoos peeking out from what could only be the intentional holes torn into the garment. “I’d like to talk to you, even if you’re completely over it already.”

“Fucking completely over it already-- and also, busy in 10.” He bends at the waist to stretch all too easily and Richie wonders how he’d feel under his hands. “Unless you want a private table--” he’s got a hand on one knee, twisting his back “piss off”

The good thing in being a pariah was the disbelief. There were a set of expectations that the form of loud shirts and baggy jeans held. Of course he relished in these moments where he got to flip the script, in a small way- dismantle one tiny preconceived notion. It gave him a blast of serotonin. The dancer’s face was priceless, blanking totally as Richie procured his wallet, took out some bills and licked his finger. Let the stranger watch him count off the singles and sigh (he relaxed) then get out his fifties (a cautious frown) before settling on tapping out some twenties with a hundred. 

Richie smiled and winked. “Think I’ll take you up on that. I’ll be by the west wings, Legs.”

* * *

Legs did not want to be here, easy to tell, and it wasn’t because of discomfort. 

Richie was a group guy but he was alone this time around and liked it. He preferred to be alone when circumstances turned increasingly intriguing. Lounging back on the square style single chairs, he watched the other man close and secure the flimsy curtain that protected their booth. Richie was grateful he snagged a Seabreeze for the road and settled in.

The other man kept glancing at the curtain, through the crack, nervous looking then trying to make it seem like he was checking his nails, simply stretching. What was so interesting? 

“So are you going to dance eventually?”

That got him a withering glare. “Shut up.”

He grinned and let himself lean forward onto the table as Legs climbed onto it. The thing was small- made for a one person gig, two if you were going to be entangled and moaning. The new set was playing and it was something Richie could definitely appreciate more. This water-temple atmospheric bassy EDM. Eddie’s hips wound to it, the man placing his arms above his head as his body snaked to follow his movements. 

Up close and personal, Legs was a very fine specimen. His cock was probably a nice size and his thighs were thick, built. A lot of running maybe. The ass on him was adorable and enticing. Looked like a walking crotch rot advertisement the way they sucked up those nothing shorts and hugged snug the front of Leg’s body. His muscles were mostly unnoticeable save for those arms and that flat stomach. A fine layer of glitter covered the dancer’s body- probably not intentionally, probably not by choice. Legs didn’t seem like a glitter guy. But it did make him sparkle under the pale private beam.

Pebbled nipples, the way he dragged his hands down his body, fingers lightly tapping as he dropped down to his knees. His crotch was nearly eye-level and Richie adjusted his glasses at the next proximity, before looking up at the man looking down at him.

“No touching?” 

“No touching.” His body swiveled to the side, knees up and dropping into an arch.  _ Ooooh, a classic _ , Richie’s shoulder sighed, enjoying the tick-tock of that swaying bubble butt. God, were those his balls? Was that a faint outline of his balls? 

“I can talk though,” he queried as Eddie swung around to his knees again. Parted them with a huff. 

His leg went up as he grunted, “Unfortunately.”

Only signal he needed was a clear confirmation. Leaning back a little to get a better view without spraining his neck, Richie licked his lips then asked a forbidden question. “Got a name?”

It earned him a critical glare after his leg went over his head and admittedly, Richie did have a second where he wondered what had even transpired for him to deserve something so sharp. But it hit him. Right. Yeah. Name. 

Those shorts were tight but not immune to heat, inching up and sticking like a wet garbage bag. The meat of his dancer’s thigh was prominent and the suggestion of his ass couldn’t have been sexier. Richie waited and tried not to visibly shudder at the slow drag of the other man’s hand down his own leg, skirting over groin, which he raised to meet the ghostly touch. “E. D.”

Richie had flies in his ears but it took him a moment to process. “E-D? Like Edie? From Grey Gardens? Eeed?” The amusement was palpable, guffawing. 

ED probably wanted to correct him by swinging his legs out that wide. It was insane how far they could spread. Just as casually, he rolled his body and turned into a split, glaring down at Richie with a canine sharp smile. “Dancers are good when they can focus” he says bitingly through clenched teeth. “You want me to focus, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Saccharine sweet and oh so poisonous. Where’d they dig this one up from? Even with his weird speech, his bite is full of blades. Easy as anything, Rich replies smoothly. “If I wanted to watch some trade pound their sack into the floor ‘till it looks like meatloaf, I wouldn’t have paid this much for a private, sweetheart.” 

“What I do isn’t pounding my  _ sack _ into the floor, fucking gross.”

Richie rakes a look across those spread legs and the ass currently trying to inhale its owner’s shorts. “Yeah, I bet it isn’t.”

The back leg raises gracefully and is held. Richie continues. “I’ve seen gymnasts, I know strippers, it’s the whole round of the lot. If you want to twirl around and audition for the Olympics, I might not be the right one. But you already signed off on the dotted line-- no hands, my time, your time.” Richie takes a sip from his Seabreeze. “So here’s a proposal.”

Leaning forward until he’s tilting his head up to look at the dancer’s eyes, Richie grins. “Let’s skip the prologue and niceties and go for the carnage. You can do whatever you want, I can ask whatever I please.” His glasses are pressing too hard into his nose again but he doesn’t adjust them just yet. “I think that’s a pretty sweet shot.”

Usually the ensemble gets people. The readymade doubt. But Richie finds what he wants and that’s the ultra-perceptive squint the dancer shoots him. 

Someone dressed like a newbie doesn’t read off a list of verbal and body cues. It’s like a rolodex is currently being flown through as ED, leg still stretched and held in his hand, contemplates the offer. Most easy work would easily snag the money and give a haphazard lapdance or just sit there and let him rattle on. 

ED grimaces.

It’s utterly appealing in the thudding club noise as he leans forward so Richie can more clearly hear him, tone dialed down, and snaps a ‘Fine.’

So those Wet Seal clad shorts pushing against his groin. Eddie’s back knocks his glasses askew but his eyes are nearly closed anyways. Although his body bucks, his hands stay firmly in place on the tacky velvet seats. “How old are you?” Richie murmurs against the slide of sweaty hair that almost buries itself back onto his own head. 

“31.” Ed lowers himself into that waist-bend in front of him in the slim space between the table and seating. His body turns one way, hips bending the other, trailing his hands down sculpted legs that Richie wants to reach out and touch so bad. 

“Where were you born?” The hands trail back up and ghost over his ass, palm cupping and passing by his balls. Richie’s throat is dry but he’s persistent in talking- dismantling the man in front of him in this game of who breaks first.

Ed straightens and turns fast, throwing a leg over Richie that has the drinker nearly spit out what he’d been inhaling. An instinct yanks his chain but he keeps his hand on the chair, not wanting to risk ending the affairs early by any directly grappling. “Maine,” is his reply as arms drape over Richie’s shoulders. 

He wants to touch him  _ so _ bad, it’s all that repeats in his brain. He wants to touch him. Feels his body taunt with it but relents. Instead, he focuses on the dancer’s face, his defined chin and the way his lips look as they’re sucked inbetween his teeth. Richie could have fantasies about those lips, write novels dedicated to just imagining what they felt like, tasted like, looked like in a variety of different scenarios. For now, he just lets Ed bear down on him. Just enough pressure to feel his dick but not enough to actually help. There’s no relief in the way his hips rock and roll away, the other knee folded on the seat and caging Richie into a steel box of desire and motive.

“How long have you been dancing?”

“Years. Over eight.” A particular grind that’s more skin and Richie’s neck tilts back a little and he feels himself shiver. Dimly says, “mmmmHm,” then laughs.

“How long have you been dancing here?” Ed’s not about to snag him, even as those fingers tug on his hair ever so slightly. Slowly, the dancer pulls away and lets his hands trail over Richie’s body, who arches into it. He’s sinking to the floor and looking up with hands on Richie’s thighs. A pink tongue darts out to lick across already raw lips. 

God. He’s good. Too good. “Not over a year.”

Ed turns now, lets his hands slide sightlessly back up the soft denim and curl over thighs, rising up and then sinking down with that swaying ass. Richie chances a hand ghosting over the other’s hip, present enough but like two magnets repulsing one another-- orbiting. “What did you do before?” 

One muscular arm and a strong wrist supports the dancer’s weight as he mimes (probably) touching himself. Richie wished he was just another trick on the floor, to feel the slide of his clothed erection at the back of this little thing’s body. Hold his hips and rock with him in the fairybomb of the club’s central chamber. Graceful shadows are cast across the body rocking and sighing above his own. “Odd jobs,” Ed moans. It’s fake- maybe?- but it really does the job. What Richie wouldn’t give to just grab his hips and pull him down flat; screw up against him until a hole was burned in those slinky stupid shorts. There were more pressing matters than his cock trapped and strained against his jeans though. 

From their little game, probably hitting around the twenty minute mark now, Ed’s replies had been flawless and simple. Straight answers with little fuss. His maneuvers around his answers had Richie fuzzy for minutes. Aroused and drunk and horny and wanting it- bad. 

But that was it, the wanting. The  _ maneuvers _ . Quick thinking, calculation; worked at the club under a year, danced for more than a decade-- but where? Were those thick thighs indicative of a classic background? Would Eds suddenly burst into the swirling quicks and hand swipes of modern jazz? 

This Eds guy, he was a strange one. Richie’s throat was bobbing as he watched the muscles in the dancer’s back bunch and draw with each tiny circle he made. Constraint friction, small bumps, had him exhaling hard through his nose. “Favorite bar?” He nearly misses Ed’s neck turning, face a striking profile with still pointed eyes.

“Don’t drink.”

Richie’s eyes almost fully close with a hand raking through his hair. He feels like it must be a little oily, damp, from the heat of the club and the lust locking his limbs in place, sweating with the effort of restraint. A tiny noise shudders through his throat and he giggles with pitched mania.  _ Fuck _ man if this guy wasn’t the whole bread factory, pre-sliced and all different types. Thinking of stupid ways to construct his mentality around the torturer did help stemmy some of his bucking, the noises that begged to creak out. “Not even a… visit for, hah, for the ambiance?” 

“I prefer cigar lounges,” Ed mouthed next to his ear. Tongue peeking out and flicking as if it made to lick him. 

“Must be hell on your lungs.” Richie could hear himself panting but didn’t feel the need to hide his pained arousal.

To his surprise, he thinks he got a full smile out of the man responsible for his tense everything. A genuine smile and a snort to go with it. “Those things are already long dead.” He tapped Richie’s cheek and made his glasses bounce. “Thirty minutes are done,” he reported easily with a much warmer tone of voice this time around.

His bangs stuck to his sweaty forehead but at least there was some relishing that Ed didn’t come out of this unaffected. His own body seemed taunt-sensitive; flushed cheeks, goosebumps, and big eyes-- bigger than before, blown out, as sweat pebbled his skin just barely. In the club’s heat and shuddering light, Richie was captivated by his mystery even now. There was barely a dent in his persona, the scratch at the surface already healing where Richie felt more wracked by curiosity and need than ever. With a wane grin, half-spent from just  _ holding _ everything, Richie started to push himself up. Ed didn’t move and he crowded into his face, erection bumping against his hip, neck bent to look down at the bright eyes that stared back at him.

Ed murmured something that in the west wing’s, more private, Richie should have been able to hear. But it was  _ quiet _ . Louder than a moth’s wing. He tapped his ear and they leaned forward in sync, big eyes brighter in the slant of neon lights.

“I like you.”

Richie felt confused, flustered, too aroused to think straight. “I like you, too.”

The returning smile he got would have been sweet if it didn’t promise so much more. “But your time is up.”

Nod. “It’s up. I should go.”

“But I’ll see you,” Ed soothed and Richie’s eyebrows drew together. 

“Will you?”

He received a nod then the man was moving away from him and parting the curtain. The immediate blaze of green-blue neon made Richie cringe in a reminder of what noise would be waiting for him outside. He watched Ed leave through it, sparing a tiny glance, before he vanished. His silhouette was tall and dark as he walked away and eventually it, too, left Richie alone in the booth. 

Being in the club is more chaotic than before. It feels like hours passed but the experience itself seemed too short. He was sure glitter specks were caught in his roots from Ed’s playing around in it. After being suffocated alone in the other’s presence, his brain felt clogged, the floor seemed dizzying, and Richie felt a lurch that had him puffing out his cheeks and releasing a slow breath.

Must be the Seabreeze.

Red wasn’t at the bar anymore; her shift must have ended. It wasn’t the height anymore either-- closing would approach in an hour just about? Richie didn’t bother checking his phone and hazarded a glance up to the pillar. No Eds present. Maybe there was a backroom or another person to get to, but nothing was keeping him there any further. 

After refreshing himself with a splash of water, Richie dragged a hand down his face and shook stray droplets from his hair. His reflection in the decal-covered mirror looked grim. Being anyone’s type with the haze of stubble and his overgrown haircut felt like a fantasy. And yet Eds said it. 

_ I like you _ .

He expressed nothing but annoyance or ambivalence their entire exchange. What had been the turning point, if there was truth in what he said? What had been the tip that settled his opinions? If there was truth in what he said.

There was no money extorted, after all, and Eddie didn’t seem like much of a bullshitter with his flat and sharp vocabulary. 

Not a lot of people liked Richie. They liked Trashmouth, they liked a laugh. But the friendship circles he had were small and specific dynamics. Tricks at the bar didn’t like Richie. Sexy dancers with blessed thighs didn’t  _ like _ Richie. Maybe his cock but usually the whole fuss of ‘getting to it’ led to that singular point where suddenly a very acute appreciation for him as a person developed. 

No sign of Red, no sign of Ed; what was keeping him from getting his dick wet while he was here? There was an hour to spare and plenty of people still out there writhing. He could find an empty pocket to occupy and then wait for the inevitable.

It’s a good idea. He likes that idea and enacts it upon leaving the restrooms.

He’s asking this cute guy named Adrian if he moves like that against his boyfriend when there’s a hand encircling his waist.

Now, Richie’s fine with physical touch in the club. It would usually annoy him had he been freshly sober and sure, the Seabreeze is fading a little, but the stacked Cuban Libre definitely kept him feeling that buzz tickling along his cheeks. His eyes followed the hand. It was gloved and buckled. There was a thin strap of skin that was obscured by a thick leather jacket. Up, up, until he’s staring in Ed’s eyes dumbly and can’t help but add a grin into the mix. “Hi.”

He let himself be rocked with the additional hand that frames the other side of his body. He can feel his clothes glide over the material of Ed’s gloves as he turns and opens his mouth to speak again.

But Ed’s coming closer, standing still, because he’s unexpectedly towed in with a sharp pull. It’s a strength that the body curling over and against him didn’t reveal. Although the dancer was shorter, Richie felt oddly diminutive. Eyebrows knitted, Ed didn’t offer much except for a thin grin and kept dancing with him.

Just the two of them dancing with one another. Richie didn’t know where to put his hands, so much bigger and used to holding, but he let them make a place on the other’s slimmer shoulders. He can see it in those big eyes like the black caps of a gas mask, reflecting him staring back. A hundred tinier Ed’s receding infinitely back. Unaware of how much time has passed, they have slowed to a stop and he’s just staring back at the person holding him.

The heavy hands at his waist squeeze and Richie bites his tongue to stifle a yelp. Ed strokes the tender areas. He whispers and he has to lean close, even closer. "Do you want to go away from here? Understand?" as he starts to move back. 

"Go- away? Yeah, Eds---"

For someone so  _ tiny _ , he parts people with authority. There are no words needed. Richie can’t help but follow, led by the loss when those hands drop from his waist. He’s reaching out and feels his fingers catch gloved ones, as they walk through the crowd and for the exit. 

Richie doesn’t make a habit of leaving with any old someone. He’s fond of bathroom blows and parking lot ruts. There is a sense that this won’t be the typical situation this time, though. The dancer doesn’t speak as they get through the exit but the bouncer seems confused, does a double-take. As they pass the crowd, a flash of red nearly distracts Richie but his body is fully immersed in what is the cold desert night.

They steam in the parking lot. Sweat-wet and buzzing, they trample over gravel holes and past the line-up of valet parking. When they begin to swerve away from Richie’s ride, the man skids a little in his attempt to halt the one towing him behind. It’s like holding onto a heavy bird until Ed turns abruptly. “What?”

Richie doesn’t want to let go of his hand, squeezes it to assure him. “No, just-- my ride’s over there. I didn’t know if you wanted to…” Ed cranes his neck to see where he nods to. It’s a Chevrolet Camaro his Dad passed down. Cherry red and heavily beaten but a classic. Ed’s face says otherwise. 

“You drive that?” Richie’s going to answer when he shakes his head once. “Let’s go in mine. It’s bigger. And reliable.” Ed pulls again and Richie thinks hurriedly if there’s anything of value in his locked up beater, but the only thing about it would probably be the car itself. People do strip-jobs in the middle of the night; it wasn’t rare! Targeting a gay club parking lot is surely  _ strange _ but crime didn’t have a set of ethics. Did it? 

But who cares when they are walking in the direction of a polished and rugged truck. Richie has a few soft spots that don’t directly deal with the squeeze of flesh. The entire ride screamed of rough trade. Ed opened the passenger door for him but had to cart out a toolbox and move a few loose instruments into it, moving it to the back. There was something like a tank nestled at the foot and Richie marveled in watching Ed pick it up and grunt as he put it in the trunk’s bed.

It’s monstrous his attraction to this specimen. This strange, unusual man with his big features and a lithe body.

Richie gets in after briefly patting the chair down and is grateful for the bulk of material already taking up space. He doesn’t need to adjust the seat and is stretched out once Ed gets in, starting the truck. It rumbles to a sensual growl and then a roar that tells Richie, an idiot with many subjects as it has been said, that a model this old looking shouldn’t have a snarl to it like that. The engine’s got an oomph to it that modifications probably granted. He wondered what other alterations this man has made.

Like his dancing, the truck curves out from its parking spot by a tree near the overflow grasses and skates around a wide breadth of hasty car jobs before exiting without a single gravel splash or spit. It’s a clean leave with a loud roar that makes Rich shudder.

The club from afar is dark with the hum of white lights and its pink sign the only indication of its open status. Quickly, it’s swallowed by bushes and empty land, shrinking back in the rearview with a wink. 

He is alone in the car with Eds. 

Eds, who is practically a stranger to him.

Who wears leather gloves and a leather jacket. Who doesn’t seem to be sparing him a glance. 

It makes him uncomfortable. Richie, he liked to live with a little chaos, all in a day’s and that kind of stuff. He liked to wake up with his pants half down or attempt a quick arson. He liked to put ketchup on hotdogs in front of his Chicago-brothers and enjoyed ordering deep-ditch for his craft beer New Yorkers. It was risk it was chance it was the thrill of punishment, and even better the wild rush of escaping it.

There wasn’t an escape in this case. The road had quickly left behind any form of rough shrubs; now it was just sand and dirt and cement. Hurtling down the deserted road with a stranger to him. He wasn’t 21 anymore. Hell if his parents didn’t still call but they checked up after maybe two  _ weeks _ . A person missing for two weeks was fucking dead-- he could be dead, a body dumped into the hot desert, lost to time, to everyone’s eyes, rotting and festering until his skin blistered red then sagged and bleached under exposure.

Fuck. What the  _ fuck _ was he doing? He wasn’t in his car and he wasn’t in control.

He needed to do something, quickly. Richie looked at the console and went to turn on the heat. Ed’s eyes snapped to his hands then looked angrily at his face. “What the fuck, man.”

Richie smiled sheepishly. “I’m fucking cold. I’m not wearing a jacket like you, hot shot. Now wanna keep those eyes on the road?”

Even with the bristled tone, Ed didn’t look too mad, attention returning to the darkness only broken by bright headlights. “Not expecting to hit a deer. If that’s what you worry for.”

_If he jumped out of the car_ -

If he jumped out, there’d be nothing left of him. They’d have to take the skin off of someone’s hide to replace all the flesh he’d lose if the nestling rough texture of the sparse shrubbery and gravel spoke correctly. 

Ed broke his doomthoughts with an awkward throat tut. “I have CDs. You can play something.”

Richie sat there waiting for instruction but realised they must have been pre-inserted. The console was newer (with a fun red backlight) that made navigating audio easier. In a few minutes, the car gave a tiny whir and something started playing Richie couldn’t easily identify. It wasn’t English. Or Spanish. 

“Greek.”

“Oh. You’re Greek?”    
  
Grunt. “No, I’m from Maine.”

Effort to explain that a Greek person could live in Maine was considered and decided against. Richie leaned back and tried to enjoy the discomforting silence. 

Even with the sharp anxiety and rampant thoughts, he was getting into a lull. The forever stretching road and the warm truck, with the solid body of his mysterious one-night suitor. If he pretended, they had already been here- already been doing this.  _ They had been hurtling down an empty road and, freshly kissed, Richie leaned back in the passenger side. Eddie’s hand would stretch and hold his until they pulled off the side, and gently, he’d be awoken with kisses peppering his cheeks and the rush of wind. And  _

He was shaken. The rattling had ended and he fixed his glasses, eyes unexpectedly hard to open through the crust that quickly formed. Ed’s warm touch lingered but he was no longer in the car. There was rustling near the back; that had to be where he’d gone. Fixing something in the truck. Richie rubs the heel of his palm into his back with a wince as he looks at the building in the middle of a lonely desert.

Buildings in the middle of the desert didn’t usually exist for casual living. It was big and plain, some half-rickety three story with a large roof. They must be at a back entrance because there was only a small door Richie could just squint and make out. 

Ed opened the car door and helped him out, draping an arm around his back. Standing next to him in the cold, Richie feels that sense of familiarity again and the danger attached. Warning bells. That’s what they were called.

But something about the reassuring presence… No, it wasn’t that. He’d be lying if he said that.

He was curious. He couldn’t lie to himself; he was horribly intrigued.

The other man leads the way from where they parked. There’s a well cared for Mustang parked but that seems to be it for other human life. And with the evidence of another presence existing at the house, Richie only felt more concerned at who would be crouched in some random building in the middle of nowhere land.

“You uh… got roommates?” Richie feels like speaking is breaking a thousand rules but his companion doesn’t react unfavorably. 

“Sure.” He opens the door for him again and he enters, looking into the strange interior. The hallway is wide and lit with dim lamps. Rich hears Ed hang his keys and turns to watch him pull off his jacket. His muscles move admirably as he pulls the leather off. Catching his eye, the dancer walks forward after putting his jacket into a side closet. “Shoes off. C’mon."

They walk further in. Richie wants to joke about missing hospitality but keeps feeling distracted. He could have sworn there’d been a snatch of conversation but all was quiet now. A kitchen’s sink faucet was dripping. There were a few odd stains on the walls, like a smoker had keeled over and died mid-cig and sent a portion of the wall to embers. The floorboards creaked. Everything felt like it was holding a large, anticipatory breath.

Ed’s firm tug on his hand pulled him out of thoughts, refocusing as the man spoke. “And this is mine. Here. My den.” Unlocked, the door was pushed open and Richie stood at the threshold to what he… hadn’t been expecting.

The room was like a mini studio. There was a sink in the corner along with a bed, a desk, an armoire. It was mostly plain; sparse decorations except for a candle and some small book racks. Ed entered before him and looked at him with a still facial expression. His entire body seemed still, actually. With only the moon coming through a high, thin window on the hall, his eyes were bright-- big. Really really big. 

Slowly, Richie entered and whistled low. “Nice. Very Spartan, really goes with the Greek music you were playing earlier.” He laughs a little and looks at the still staring Eddie. He seemed to be breathing deeply. The warning bells are ringing again but then he’s being crowded against the wall and kissed. 

It’s intoxicating. 

His mouth is demanding, eager. Richie moans invitingly as strong hands cup his jaw and Ed is pulling him down into this sinkhole of suddenly relit lust. A leg pushes between his legs and the hand on his face shoves his head up. As Ed’s knee rocks up, he moans and then feels the other’s breath fan at his neck. There’s this noise- inhaling? Ed takes two big breaths in and all he can think to say in response to that is “Uh, woah.” The other pulls away and looks up at him with a tremble that flutters across his cheek.

"I like you."

Richie smiles but it shakes. His fear is fading into arousal in the weirdest way. His heart is pounding like he’s 14 and has a crush. But he doesn’t remember ever having a crush at 14.

"I like you, too."

Ed grunts and pulls him close. His strength is unbelievable; he feels capable of lifting Richie clear off his feet. He doesn't need the forcefulness-- wonders if this is what the others felt like, those cute things he liked to give a good rubbing.

He laughs a little, turning to pull Ed by his shoulders as they near the bed and kisses him hard. He gropes his ass and squeezes. Pulls him forward but the other is tense, puts a hand on his shoulder after a moment and pushes. 

The face on him is terrifying. With bared teeth and those strong eyebrows drawn into a 'v' on his face, nostrils flared and Richie is stunned. "Um, sorry-- you okay? I feel like I messed up-"

Ed shoves him  _ down _ . Is on top of him, this heavy weight. His hands are at his zipper, popped open his button down till the little plastic bobbles clatter against the wood, and as Richie tries to respond, he only receives a hand down his trousers and past his briefs.

He arches with a moan, "fuck!" and wants to say 'hey this is too fucking fast' but it's like time is rushing. His pants are being unceremoniously tugged and he hears the strings of sewing pulling so Richie lifts his legs to prevent ripping his good pants. 

Ed is crawling down his body and his hands are claws, like at the club, on Richie's thighs. They pull them apart. Propped on his elbows, the man immediately has to lie back because the confusing situation and embarrassment has his head swimming. Being spread open and wide to be seen in such a state. Holy shit. He hadn't bottomed in two decades.

"Um," his tongue flickers to lick nervously at his lips as he speaks to the ceiling's plain face. "I, um, I really haven't done this-- done this, in forever so uh, you're going to need a, hah, a -- ha, ha, that tic-- of lube."

He's pulled Rich through the flap of his underwear, half-hard cock being stroked as one hand keeps his legs spread and runs along the skin in teasing strokes. Like a battering brush, the leather gloves are feather light. Although weird (who keeps gloves on during this kind of shit?) it's quickly getting him hot and Rich squirms. "Do you uh, did you wanna discuss somethings? Mother's maiden name? Haha, something? Little less talkative." Ed is not answering but still agonizingly stroking him. Head swiveling this way and that to look at his cock as it twitches, fills, in his hand. 

The man's eyes fall close as he presses his cheek to Richie's cock. His breath fans across the skin and he opens his mouth to administer small licks. Harder runs. Richie runs a restless hand down his face for lack of what to do.

Usually he's head of the house, cock pistoned and mouth running as he gets even the most experienced into a blushing mess. This is so fucking weird. But kind of  _ good _ ?

He makes a whining noise and bucks as the full heat of the dancer's mouth envelops his cock. It feels-- well, immediately sharper, than expected. His head bumps the ridged pallet of Ed's mouth and Richie has to sit up to see this but can't. Ed is half crawled up on him and still rubs his thigh as he looks up with endless eyes. 

A shift has occurred in his face, more severe, hardened. Richie can't help the terrified and shuddering keen that is drawn from him as he watches the man sink fully and feels the  _ heat _ . The squelch and pop of spit as Ed hits the base drives him crazy. He could stay like this, caged by this small man and sheathed fully in his mouth, arched and tense.

It is agonizing the way his dick is sucked. Slow and thorough with the flat of Ed's tongue drawing up the side. His hand twists up as his head falls to take Richie in and god, his  _ teeth _ they are sharp but the lust has filled his head. It hurts. The points drag at his skin; he can feel them indent on his cock and how it puckers, breaks in little ways. It  _ hurts _ but he is writhing easily. Hips twisting up with grunts, gasps. 

At a point, his hand hovers to grab Ed's hair and he hesitates.  **Hesitates** . Like a little bitch! His own surprise at the pause gets the leech attached to his dick and momentarily, the hand pulling and massaging his balls disappear. He grabs Richie's wrist so fast and pulls it into his hair. Dumbly, Tozier just secures a grip and watches red lipped and bright eyed Ed pop off his cock and change gears to gargling his nuts. 

Fear is trying to come in but the darkness of the room and all its shadows are a seal as the spittle, sucking, gasps and pants put cotton into his ears. He lets pleasure settle over his eyes until he is blind to anything but it. Trying not to buck, helplessly writhing, and his efforts are at least rewarded with what he thinks is a small chuckle from the man pulling him fast towards orgasm. 

"Eds-- Ed, please, shit get off holy shit!" Richie feels his toes curling so hard, thighs tense and spread, he's getting a cramp traveling up from the left foot and twisting his leg. 

Delusional with the panic of cumming, he pants hard- half close to crying. Ed has released him now and reaches to gently fold and massage the flesh of Richie's thigh. His freehand settles like a vice around the base of his cock.

With awe, Richie cringes and whimpers as he watches the dancer lick up the precum pooling at the base with a tongue that is seems too dark and too long. Tears are gathering, he can feel them. Ed can see them in the moonlight.

He frowns. "... don't like?" The grip around Richie's cock eases and he doesn't know what to say at first, watches conflict break Eddie's expression.

"I-- n, no I like. I like it." The other still looks so hurt, like he could cry, and Richie rushes. "I just didn't want to cum so fast for you, baby. I want this to last."

Ed sniffs. "You will."

Gently, he uses Richie's erection to dab the tears away from his eyes. Then he stands and begins to disrobe with a feverish gaze still keeping Richie pinned.

The neoprene and mesh come off to reveal a body that is- 

Well. 

Off.

He is slender, small, but impossibly built with racks of abs that accompany even the gentle fat around his chest, like small breasts. His sternum creates a weapon wrack between the two masses with a large divot separating them.

He smiles at Richie like the man should be indulging as his pants come off and those thighs are revealed with a greying venous texture. His feet end long with skin that juts as if tiny bones are an addition to his skeleton, sharp toes and thin, spiked ankles.

The warning bells are back. Especially as Ed wobbles and Richie can just barely see through the jumble of his skewed glasses his back ripple. 

Definitely not warnings. Alarms, full alarms. 

The gloves stay on as Ed approaches. Richie says "Uh" but yelps as his legs are taken and he is pulled sharply to the edge of the bed. Nearly yells as his legs are pressed back and the strain is painful, humiliating. "Wait, fuck" and he is holding desperately to his ankles and throwing his head back as a tongue presses against his very on-display hole.

Ed makes an appreciative noise, the cutest hum. Richie giggles manically at the ridiculousness but it shivers it's way into a gasp, and he holds his breath as Ed laps at him. Hands squeeze at his thighs with a growl. Usually people are a bit thrown off by how much weight he is actually carrying, well into his adulthood. Compared to someone carved out of marble, he feels fat. A mound of flesh melting and decaying on a platter. 

Yet he is being devoured still. Opened by the hungry tongue. Briefly, Richie thinks ' _ man that is fucking nasty who knows where my ass has been this dude doesn't even know my last name much less my ass _ ' but he remembers how eager he would get to fuck some slippery clubkid.

Nauseating as it may be, he giggles breezily at the thoughts between gasps. Ed's tongue must have its own workout routine and the saliva gland or whatever had to be working overtime. He could feel wetness dripping down his crack ( _ imagine what he looked like _ ) and it only makes him more sensitive, more intoxicated. 

He tries to push into Ed's mouth but his position is locked. His legs hurt-- he can feel a cramp coming on again.

His cock is hot and heavy, untouched in the excruciating period that is his reintroduction to anal. Cold air makes the hairs on his body stand up and the experience is overblown, painful, he twitches futilely in an effort to enact some  _ something _ . But he can't. 

Ed is eating him up and up and up. The precum is cooling as it drips on his stomach, cock bobbing to life, falling helplessly, begging for attention. Richie thinks he is also begging for attention- especially when Ed adds fingers.

One makes him yelp but barely burns but the second is a stretch that has his head rolling back. "Holy fucking shit Eds, baby, please I can't-" he thinks he is saying but his voice feels dry from already babbling so much. With scary precision, the man holding him thrusts and crooks, angling until he brushes against Richie's prostate in a feeling that would typically have him kicking and yelling. 

He's only unable to do one. 

They are relentless, running slick over his hole as they pull out then drive back in with circular motions that has Richie flinging his head around and gasping for high heaven.

His foot arches with the strain, caught tense and unmoving as he is wracked with the pain of it all. The need of it all. Spanish and English are jumbled in his head, he can't think enough to communicate the pain the harrowing pleasure.

"Goddamit, fucKme, holy shit please, ah, ah, God please, Edbabe I can't! I c," he can feel himself crying as the fingers pull out. Tears aren't spilling but his chest feels tight on the way sobs only do.

The vision of Ed is hazy looming above. His shadow stretches long in the back wall.

Stress and fog cloud his sight, yes, but those eyes caught in the moonlight are endless.  _ He _ is endless, this Ed. With a face that is cavernous and growing, splitting. The long tongue hangs out of his mouth and his cock is erect against his stomach. Ghoulish, he could describe it as. It is a ghoulish cock-- a real specimen.

Holding his ankles with trembling hands still, Richie has no idea to react to the monster that stands before him. Maybe frets about the fact that using a condom doesn't fall within the conjectures of monsterkind.

Moonshine highlights the split skin down the middle of Ed's face, eyes overwide. The heavy buckle strap of the gloves are loosened and impatiently flicked away as Ed curls over the weeping Richie.

His claws nick the knuckles where they curl over the two hands holding his ankles. Affectionately, in the quiet way back at the club, he hums in a voice that sounds like it bubbles with blood, "I like you." The hands squeeze. "We like you." 

Blood drips down Richie's lenses as Ed smiles down at him. "Can I keep you?" 

The head of his cock feels impossibly big. Richie's mouth opens with the noiseless cry, eyes rolling back as he is split down the middle, too, chest heaving, tears spilling, as he finds God in the relentless drive of Eddie's cock, Eddie's lips. 

Fangs slide awkwardly over his lips until he has a dozen cuts, spread into a possessive bare as Richie's voice flies high as he is shattered over and over again. 

As if Eddie had known all along where to hit and make him break. 

Ridges rub relentlessly inside of him and he cums easily. Again and again. Noises are obscene, his ass a gaping and slurping maw at the cock that thrusts into him as slick expels from his once-tight hole. 

Richie cannot keep his hands up but that's alright. Ed is there to support him as he is useless, the man's hands lifting to let them fall limp and replacing them in full. Next are his legs-- they are useless, weak. 

He does not know the amount of time that has passed. Puppeted as his legs are gathered and he is turned to his side. They are tucked to his chest as Ed rotates and fills him up again until he thinks he is spitting out blood or bile, choking and then expelling useless nonsense words, moans, cries.

Handled so easily by this small man. The worn bed dipping to accommodate their weight (mostly his.) 

As slobber slashes across his face, jostled from his hanging jaw, Richie thinks about how he is spitted on this monster cock. That has grown inside him, stretched him in intervals, redefined his body into a vessel perfect for only one creature.

How must he look? He feels thousands of eyes on him, watching gleefully.

How must he look, this big man? Greedily gulping air only for it to escape in wheezes, snot-filled sobs, moans. Ruddy and covered in god knows what. Ed holds him like he belongs just like that, fucking into him and growling in this wet and guttural way that warns another orgasm. Blood smears against his back as Richie feels his elbow and shoulder bump the flayed skin that must make up some large portion of the man's chest.

Richie passes out on his stomach. Hands behind his back as the red haze of balls slapping against his ass and a dick throttling his insides whaps him without warning. 

In the interim of blackness, he feels like he can hear voices. There is a vibrating noise like a purr. It is strangely comforting. Mammalian or motor, he is not enough of himself to know. 

When he wakes, he is redressed and baking in the merciless morning of the desert. There is humming to his left and he watches through cracked glasses as his car comes driving up. 

It parks next to the Mustang and the bartender pops out, Red. She looks different in the daytime and seems effervescent for reasons he does not know.

She approaches him. "Oh, so you decided to stay?" Her voice has a tilt that wasn't there at the bar, almost like there are two tones buzzing at the same time. An electrical interference. 

_ No _ , Richie wants to scream.  _ No, and I want to do the opposite, to scream and run and kill anything that ever gets in my way _ -

"Uh." His voice is rough, cracked. He can't raise it above a croak. "For now. Yeah."

"Good. I knew he'd like you." Her tone is so sweet. "Of course he always does. But, you know, he gets embarrassed about the whole… well,  _ you know _ , heheh."

Richie thinks he does now.

"Glad to see you whole and in one!" She inhaled, looked around then back at him. "Well I'll catch you inside. Don't want to be staying out here too long, smooth skin. You'll likely catch afire." She tosses her head and snickers while heading inside, and Richie looks away as a light scuffle ensues. Only as footsteps creak toward him does he turn his head to look at Ed.

He looks. Well. 

He looks normal. No ghoulish teeth, no purple and bruised grey skin. No split skull and bleeding heart with massive claws dragging a severed body.

Instead, Ed is holding a very delicate looking and dingy plate. Wordlessly, he places a tea towel and it on Richie's lap.

There is toast with eggs, latkes and a clementine.

Richie looks up to watch the man drink something pastel and frothy from a Mason jar. He has the nerve to catch him looking and look away, blushing, and for the love of everything:

He fidgets. 

Picking up the knife and looking through cracked glasses, Richie thinks momentarily that he could stab him and run away. Spare enough time to hotwire the car maybe or fish out the spare he keeps stabbed into the leather lining. 

But he doesn't want to do that. For some reason, he never wants to stab this man who for all intensive purposes happened to be maybe a little not mortal. 

He instead cuts into the eggs and watches the split leak mushy yolk into warm bread. He lets Ed sit next to him after a while on the bench, lets him watch as he eats, those eyes boring into him once Rich finally turns his head.

"You can call me Eddie." Demuring, adding, "sorry."

Richie ripped off another piece of toast. "Does this mean I can't call you Eds?"

"No. You can call me that."

Richie nods as he swallows. Looks down at his lap then out toward the desert. Eddie's hand curls around his neck and begins to work in a light massage. "I feel like we have a lot to talk about."

"Yes."

"But I don't feel like it right now."

"Oh."

He sets the plate on the floor and faces Eddie's open surprise, shame, and love. "Gimme your lap."

Bewildered, Eddie's eyebrows scrunch. Which is so cute on him. Richie doesn't explain and forces the adaptation of his body on top of the other's. Scooching and shifting so his legs better support a new head, Ed looks down at him with clear conflict. 

Richie yawns and closes his eyes. "Later, Eds."

He chooses not to comment on the smile with too many teeth. His stomach feels a little sick but he is happy at the sharp nails running through his hair, lulled by the rightness of this house and this man owning him. Going back isn't a choice at this point, after all. He will sleep and be awoken with kisses peppering his cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, this is an entry I've been working on for my own made up halloween challenge. wheeee.  
> thank you for reading this, fellow spooksters. hope you enjoyed!
> 
> oh and feel free to reach me at [rhysses](https://twitter.com/rhysses?s=09) to know about my ideas n updates among other clownery.


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